


a flower bloomed already wilting

by HallowedWren



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst?, Author doesnt know how to tag, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt No Comfort, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Pre-Relationship, Probably ooc, Song fic?, The Mountain (TM), Unrequited Love, You Have Been Warned, just more hurt, lots of coughing up blood, more like pre-requited love?, no beta we die like jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26706181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallowedWren/pseuds/HallowedWren
Summary: "He could either stay away from Geralt and somehow convince himself to fall out of love with the kindhearted Witcher, or stay and die a slow, painful death.It wasn’t even a choice."--This is the sad ending!! If that's not your cup of tea, I've also posted an alternate version with a happy ending
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 116





	a flower bloomed already wilting

**Author's Note:**

> not quite sure how angst-y this is. hopefully i did well  
> all mistakes are mine
> 
> song is "you gotta die sometime" from the musical Falsettos, with one (1) liberty taken  
> title from quote by R.J. Gonzales, “A flower bloomed already wilting. Beginning its life with an early ending.”
> 
> (just an fyi, the two versions of this fic are not identical, there are some changes before the split in directions)  
> ((also the flowers are Persain buttercups))
> 
> *yeets fic at you* HERE ENJOY SOME HURT

Jaskier hummed to himself as he brewed his nightly cup of tea. Disgusting stuff, this miracle shit. White tea with peppermint, honey, and an assortment of other ingredients that Jaskier had to blow his hard-earned coin on. But of course, it was unnecessary to find a concoction that actually tasted—well, he couldn’t ask for it to taste _good_ , but at the very least, they could make a mixture that didn’t leave this grimy, bitter taste even hours later. He _would_ say it’s the lesser of two evils but, well. We all know how Geralt feels about _that_.

Hanahaki’s a bitch, but it’s a manageable bitch.

Jaskier honestly didn’t know how he’d kept his condition from Geralt this long. Guess its evidence of just how much Geralt doesn’t care about his health.

It had begun with a sore throat, and he’d just assumed it was a bug or he’d overworked his voice. Annoying, but he’d be fine with a couple days of vocal rest.

Then he coughed up the first petal.

He’d stared at the yellow blob in his palm for nearly a full minute before its meaning actually sunk in.

He could either stay away from Geralt and somehow convince himself to fall out of love with the kindhearted Witcher, or stay and die a slow, painful death.

It wasn’t even a choice.

Some would call him stupid. His friends did, actually. They called him… what was it? “a literally lovesick, hopeless dumbass.”

He didn’t care.

Then came the pain. And the blood. More and more petals, then the bulbs.

When he started pulling out near-full blooms, he knew his time was coming.

Geralt may never love _him_ romantically, but the witcher still deserved to _be_ loved. Since it seemed no one else was up to the task, Jaskier was happy to take up this burden. For as long as he could, Jaskier would love him.

He didn’t realize that Geralt might not want his love.

He came down the mountain stumbling and wheezing.

Geralt had rejected him before, but always in smaller, less permanent, less _explicit_ ways. It was always just leaving him behind at inns, insults, and physically pushing him away.

After every small—but by no means insignificant—rejection, the Hanahaki had flared up, progressing faster than it would have otherwise. He’d spend a few days bedridden, coughing up flowers that had already moved onto the next stage in their growth.

Each time, the disease spiked in intensity, then receded to the usual pace. Each time, he adapted.

And each time, he came back to Geralt. He couldn’t stay, away even though his life literally depended on it.

He didn’t _want_ to stay away.

But now he’d been pushed— _shoved_ —away.

Jaskier tripped only a few steps after leaving the path at the base of the mountain, scraping up his knees and palms.

A sharp fire burned his lungs and throat at every raspy cough, but he physically could not hold them back. He absently noted the drops of blood and spit coating his lips and the dirt beneath him. After two full minutes of coughs that shook his entire body, he was able to reach down his throat far enough to pull out two fully bloomed buttercup flowers.

He spared a moment to thank the gods that Hanahaki only caused the _heads_ of flowers to grow in the victim’s lungs, not the stems as well. Pity the poor bastard who’d end up literally tearing their throat apart from the inside out with thorny roses.

Jaskier staggered to his feet, stumbling from tree to tree for support. He had to stop to hack up more flowers once more, before he came across a fallen log.

Dropping heavily onto the ground for the last time, he wiped his bloodied hands on his trousers, and cradled his lute to his chest, resting on his uncomfortable deathbed—death-seat? well, doesn’t really matter.

Finally, he let himself cry. For the world he’d soon have to leave; for his witcher who might never know—or even care—what happened to him. For his own stupid heart, who insisted on falling in love with someone who wouldn’t want to love him back even if he could. (That’s not to say witchers can’t love, absolutely not! But in all their time together, Jaskier had only ever seen Geralt take women into his bed. He’d never shown even a shred of interest in men. At least, that way, Jaskier could ~~try to~~ convince himself that he simply wasn’t the correct gender. That if only he were a woman, then Geralt might-- no. Best not go down that road.)

Even as he sat there, slumped against a tree like the town drunk, Jaskier took care to not let his blood stain his beloved lute. Really, there wasn’t a reason to care, since he’d be dead within an hour or two. But could you blame him? He wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind for “reasonable” thoughts.

His every breath rattled and wheezed, but inspiration struck, and he might as well sing one last song before he left to the next plane of existence. His fingers were slow to change chords, but that was alright. He was hearing a slow melody, anyway.

_Oh-kay_

_When the doctor started using phrases like_

_“you’ll pass away,”_

_what could I say?_

_I said, “Doctor,_

_in plain Common,_

_tell me why was I chosen,_

_why me, of all men?_

_“Doctor, here’s the good part._

_At least death means I’ll never be scared about dying_

_again.”_

_Let’s get on with living while we can_

_and not play dumb._

_Death’s gonna come._

_When it does, screw the nerves!_

_I’ll be eating hors d’oeuvres._

_It’s the roll of the dice and no crime._

_You gotta die_

_sometime._

His breath failed him on the low note, and he had to pause to hack and spit to his side.

Ignoring the burning pain, he continued singing.

_Death is not a friend,_

_but I hope in the end_

_he takes me in his arms and lets me hold his face._

_He holds me in his arms and whispers something_

_funny._

_He lifts me in his arms and tells me to embrace_

_his attack!_

_Then the scene turns to black._

Jaskier had to stop more often now, but by the gods he was going to finish this last fucking song.

_Life sucks._

_People always hate a loser_

_and they hate lame ducks._

_Screw me and, shucks!_

_That’s it!_

_That’s the ballgame!_

_I don’t smoke, don’t do drugs,_

_and then comes the bad news._

_I quit!_

_That’s the ballgame._

_It’s the chink in the armor,_

_the shit in the karma,_

_the blues._

_Can I keep my cool despite the urge_

_to fall apart?_

_How should I start?_

_I would cry if I could!_

_But it does no damn good_

_to explain I’m a man in my prime._

_You gotta die_

_sometime._

Every note was a struggle. Jaskier was feeling lightheaded, now. That’s alright. He’s almost done, anyway.

_Death’s a funny pal_

_with a weird sort of talent._

_He puts his arms around my neck_

_and walks me to the bed._

_He pins me up against the wall_

_and kisses me like crazy._

_The many stupid things I thought about with dread_

_now delight!_

_Then the scene turns to white._

The world was getting fuzzier, his vision blurring, spinning, pulsing.

_Give me the balls to orchestrate a graceful leave._

_That’s my reprieve,_

_to go out_

_without care,_

_my head high in the air!_

_It’s the last little mountain I’ll climb._

Jaskier spit the word— _mountain_ —like it was venom.

It might as well have been.

_I’ll climb!_

_You gotta die_

_sometime._

_You gotta die sometime-_

_sometime-_

_some-_

_time-_

Jaskier's breath finally failed him, and his mouth gaped like an annoying fish who’d finally gone silent.

His arms went limp around his lute.

The world faded-

faded-

faded-

His head rolled back, thumping to a rest against the rough wood behind him.

Jaskier's body jerked as it fought hopelessly for air, but nothing could get past the obstructions in his wind-way. Oh, that’s some nice al- allter-

A final, weak cough found a way out.

Even the wind fell still, as if in solidarity with the man who had so loved living.

* * *

As Geralt watched the fading light create an unfairly beautiful sunset, his anger drained from him like puss from a pustule.

Ice flooded his chest as he realized just what he had said to Jaskier.

He scrambled to his feet, sliding over loose dirt as he raced down the mountain.

He had to find him. To apologize, to _beg_ to be forgiven.

It was very unlikely he would be, but Jaskier deserved to at least know that he was _not_ a burden. He’d _never_ been a burden.

Jaskier had been nothing but kind to Geralt from the fucking start. He’d never admit it, but Geralt was insecure and completely convinced that Jaskier would leave him, permanently. He’d pushed him away, thinking that if he broke it off now, it wouldn’t hurt as much when Jaskier finally came to his senses.

But in the process, he’d hurt _Jaskier_ so much more.

Between one step and the next, the potent, metallic tang of blood made it almost hard to breathe.

 _Jaskier's_ blood.

Geralt’s heart went from attempting to beat its way out of his chest, to stuttering to a stop.

He ran.

He ran down, then off, the path, following the trail of blood and yellow flowers.

_Flowers?_

Geralt stumbled to a stop. Fell to his knees.

Knelt in front of the only source of joy in his life.

Knelt in front of his _body_.

“No. No, it can’t-”

His hands hovered over bloodstained clothing, trembling.

There was no heartbeat to hear.

No breath to feel.

No disapproving gaze for the words he’d said.

No cutting voice.

No crossed arms.

No _Jaskier._

Only a loudly dressed, yet silent body, with still-cooling blood trailing from nostrils and mouth.

Geralt's hands dropped limply to his sides.

Even in death, the bard still clung to that damned lute.

Geralt stood.

He found a small break in the trees nearby, and began to dig.

He paid no mind to the broken nails, the bloodied fingertips.

He dug until he was sure the- the _grave_ wouldn’t be disrupted.

His hands still trembled, but his arms were steady as he picked up the body with his—its--? _no_ —beloved lute with a sort of tenderness Geralt had never shown the bard in life.

It was nearly sunrise by the time he’d refilled the hole.

The void in the ground was gone, but there was now a hollow in his heart he hadn’t felt even when he’d been forced to kill Renfri. A hollow he’d created as surely as he’d disturbed the earth before him.

Geralt backtracked, picking up every single bloodied flower he found.

Once he was sure they were all in his hands, he kicked dirt over the drops and smears of blood, making his way back to Jaskier. He’d never sought the bard out before, always the one being found.

He sorely regretted that now.

He knelt beside the grave, piled the blossoms over where Jaskier's heart would be.

A sign of igni, and the brightness of the fire wasn’t the only thing burning his eyes.

The first rays of golden sun fell on the unmarked grave.

And Geralt cried.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! <3


End file.
